


could we be enough? (we can be enough)

by amemorymaze



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Sad sad sad, Sex, Smoking, an au of adele's music vid for hello, reconcilliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amemorymaze/pseuds/amemorymaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The dust in the air tickles at the back of his throat and it hits him at once just how long it’s been; three years to be precise. </i><br/><br/><i>Three years is a lot of dust. Three years of mending a broken heart; stitching the pieces together that he himself shattered. Sleepless nights and long days, trying to pick up his life and carry on as if everything hadn’t fallen apart. Three years of staying away and never coming back, just letting the cottage sit still, unoccupied.</i><br/><br/><i>Three years is a lot of time. </i><br/><br/><br/>(or, harry comes home for the first time in three years and louis' there - he's always there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	could we be enough? (we can be enough)

**Author's Note:**

> yikes!!!! so i wrote this when adeles song came out last week!! (it's only been like, what, 5 days??? how???) and i was like YES LARRY AU YES NOW. and i did it? and it ran away with me and it's 13k!!!??? holyyyyy. 
> 
> anyway, thank you to leia for helping me last night with metaphors and making it pretty and helping me with the ending + celine for listening to me going on about it. also kayla + elsa for encouraging me when i was like !!!!! what!!!! (always.) for people on the fic rec chat for being excited about it (that always makes my day). also, to adele for writing the song in the first place. kudos. (yh, i know harry didn't really write on it but IMAGINE THE BEAUTIFUL MUSIC THEY COULD MAKE TOGETHER) okay done bye. don't cry too hard, it's very sad.
> 
> also yes, title is adapted from home :)

_“Hello, it's me, I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet to go over everything?_

_They say that time's supposed to heal, yeah? But I ain't done much healing.”_

 

+

 

The door creaks as he pushes it open and it’s with a sense of nostalgia hanging heavily in the air that he steps over the threshold that he hasn’t been over in years.

Stepping out of the cold, harsh wind that had been billowing his scarf away from his body, Harry pretends he doesn’t hear the echo of memories that hit him as familiarity surrounds him. Little trickles of laughter and soft whispers, the clink of teaspoons in china mugs and hums of content.

He lets go of the door, the pull of the hinges causing it to slam shut behind him. The noise a stark contrast to the stillness in the air. He places his bag gently on the floor beside the beautiful full-length mirror sitting against the wall.

The sun shines through the thin drapes covering the windows by the door, the light dimming as it passes through the material. He doesn’t let himself look in the mirror - doesn’t want to know what he looks like at this moment (probably like he’s seen a ghost).

He walks into the lounge and sees the dust covers over everything and it causes his heart to jump start in his chest and his throat to close up as he bites back tears.

It’s hard being back here.

He starts pulling off the covers revealing the armchairs and loveseat, pulls the curtains open to let the light infiltrate the room. Illuminating all the furniture that he knows so well and illuminating the memories that he’d tucked away in the back of his mind.

The dust in the air tickles at the back of his throat and it hits him at once just how long it’s been; three years to be precise.

Three years is a lot of dust. Three years of mending a broken heart; stitching the pieces together that he himself shattered. Sleepless nights and long days, trying to pick up his life and carry on as if everything hadn’t fallen apart. Three years of staying away and never coming back, just letting the cottage sit still, unoccupied.

Three years is a lot of time.

 

+

 

It’s a habit, is the thing.

When he shuffles into the kitchen, the heels of his boots sounding far too loud in the quiet but he’s not quite comfortable enough just yet to walk around in only his socks, he automatically goes to the old gas stove. The kettle is still sitting there and despite being covered in dust, Harry takes the lid off and picks it up before turning to the sink.

He twists the metallic tap and waits those few seconds before it splurts to life, water bubbling from the pipe before falling with a splatter into the sink. He barely waits before he puts the kettle underneath the stream, letting it fill up.

It’s a habit he’s never broken. Always flicking the kettle on as soon as he gets in, before he’s even kicked his shoes off some days.

He’s sets the kettle down with a clatter on the hob, puts the lid back on with one hand and opens the drawer where the matches always used to be (where the matches still are) with the other.

He strikes once, twice, three times before the match finally catches and it doesn’t take three attempts because of his shaking hands; not at all. His throat closes up as he turns the gas on and as it hisses, he lights it.

It goes up in flames and Harry’s hands are still shaking.

 

+

 

He goes to text him, ask him where he is. He types the words out under his thumb, the clicking of the keyboard can barely be heard over the rustling of leaves and whistling of the wind. He’s standing in that one spot in the garden just behind the kitchen window - the only place with even a little bit of phone signal. But the clicking echos in Harry’s ears and it sounds wrong; feels oh so wrong.

The kettle shrills from the kitchen; the sound vibrating through the open window - hissing as the steam shoots into the air. It’s loud and surprising making Harry jump. His thumb almost catches the send button and his heart leaps in his chest. Sighing, he stares at the screen as he deletes the words on the text.

Stumbling his way into the kitchen, he wonders if Louis saw his typing; wonders if Louis is awaiting a message just as eagerly as he is.

He doesn’t even drink tea anymore; it reminds him too much of home.

 

+

 

_“Haz, Haz, come on!” Louis says, reaching for Harry’s spare hand and pulling him forwards, laughing as they both trip over the threshold, Harry’s legs almost tangled with Louis’ and they walk through the hallway._

_He catches sight of them in the mirror propped up against the wall, the one they’d never actually gotten round to putting up but Harry likes it there._

_There’s something about the house and how they’ve barely changed the furniture around from the last person who lived here. It’s old and quaint and it reminds him of going to his nan’s house and it reminds him of home._

_It’s their break from reality that gets just a bit too much every so often._

_Dropping the bag that’s slung over his shoulder onto the floor, he wraps his arms around Louis’ body. Pulling him impossibly close as he nuzzles gently into the crook of his neck, pressing his lips to the pulse point in a soft kiss._

_Louis hums in content and Harry watches as his eyes slide shut and a smile takes over his face._

_“I love you,” Harry mumbles, squeezing at Louis’ waist, smiling into his skin; “Love you so much, Lou.”_

_Louis turns his body in reply, knocking Harry’s face away before pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s soft and sweet and fleeting but it makes Harry’s lips stretch into a smile and he feels the stress of the past few weeks fall from his shoulders; “And I love you, duck.”_

_And despite the height difference between them, Harry curls himself up, tucking himself into the warmth of Louis’ body._

_It’s safety and comfort standing in his embrace._

_It’s home._

 

+

 

It’s been three years and this house is still habitable. There’s wood in the basket by the fire, there’s tea bags in the kitchen (probably out of date - do tea bags go out of date?) and a tin of baked beans. And maybe it’s not a lot but it’s enough to Harry.

All their belongings are still here; photos above the fireplace, a football in the corner of the room, clothes still in the wardrobe and covers still on the bed. Harry wonders if Louis had gotten someone to come and check on the cottage but then decidedly doesn’t think about it.

The thought of someone else being here runs chills down his spine.

Their records still sit under the coffee table and Harry fingers the corners of the cases before pulling the most worn down one from the pile. He flips it over in his hands and feels memories resurface as he stands up.

Sliding the record from cardboard slip, he puts it on the player before lifting the pin up and gently placing it in place before turning it on. The sound crackles slightly before working and it’s as clear as ever as The Beatles plays throughout the room.

 

+

 

It’s dark, getting late and Harry’s starting to lose hope. He’d been so sure but now he’s doubting himself.

Outside in the cold wind with a cigarette in hand as he fumbles with his phone with the other, Harry takes a pull. The smoke hits his throat then his lungs and it’s still doesn’t feel right - never felt right. But the motions are a habit now and the craving of relief is worse.

He should be here, he should be here with Harry. He knows Louis’ knew exactly what he meant by his message; that fumbling, stuttering mess of a message he’d left on Louis’ voicemail.

And Louis should’ve been here, should’ve been here first - not Harry.

“That’ll kill you, you know,” comes a familiar voice from the back door and Harry spins on his heel, dropping the cigarette on the cold stone.

“I know,” Harry replies breathlessly.

Louis stands there in the doorway, leaning against the frame in an oversized grey jumper and tight black jeans and Harry - well, Harry feels like he’s gone back in time. He looks gorgeous and warm and the sight of him leaves Harry standing in awe.

Harry feels choked up and tries to hide it even though he knows Louis will see straight through it. Standing there with only socks on his feet, looking completely irresistible and completely untouchable, Harry knows that Louis still knows him.

“Just giving you the same advice you gave me.”

Harry stumps out the cigarette with the heel of his boot before walking towards Louis, shivering slightly; “You don’t smoke?”

“Quit a few years back,” Louis says, stepping aside to let Harry through into the warmth. He brushes past Louis and it hits Harry that this is real and Louis is actually _here._

“I started a few years back,” Harry says and they both know exactly what he means.

“Tea?” Louis asks, grasping the kettle when they move into the kitchen and looks surprised to find it full of water, “Or another?”

Harry just shakes his head, “Tea bags are out of date.”

“You always did forget the tea,” Louis says, smiling as he goes into the hallway.

Harry grabs the kettle, empties the water and drags a finger through the dust sitting on top of it; there’s so much dust.

Harry realises he must’ve said that outloud because Louis replies as he walks back into the room with a box of tea bags and milk (but no sugar and Harry wonders if Louis did that on purpose). “That tends to happen.”

Harry just hums as he washes the kettle completely ridding it of all the dust; “Probably gonna have to clean the mugs too.”

Louis let’s out a breathless laugh; “It’s been a while - everything’s gonna need to be cleaned, duck.”

They both freeze for a moment but then Louis’ slamming cupboard doors as he grabs two mugs, two saucers and two teaspoons and puts them in the sink. Harry doesn’t think about the pet name, doesn’t think about how Louis shouldn’t have said it. He just focuses on washing up the items in the sink and listens as Louis clatters around loudly - a distraction.

Harry finds the tea towels in the drawer they’ve always been in and dries the mugs before placing them next to Louis before sitting down at the kitchen table.

It was a routine they had mastered all those years ago but it’s something that’s now fumbling and awkward and Harry doesn’t know what to think about that.

“Forgot how long this kettle takes,” Louis mumbles mostly to himself, waiting for it to start screaming. He looks, somehow, out of place. He’s not loud and brash, he’s not filling the room with himself. It’s odd to see him like this, to see him so small.

Harry doesn’t think he likes it that much.

They don’t talk and the air is still and filled with an awkwardness that Harry wishes weren’t there. But it is and he’ll have to wait for Louis to be sitting across from him, cup of tea in his hand, more relaxed and more comfortable. Despite the darkness outside, maybe it’ll remind him of sleepy early mornings with bed-head and mint-fresh teeth, sipping at too hot tea because they couldn’t go a day without it.

When the kettle finally boils and Louis makes the tea with sounds of metal clinking against china, he switches the stove off before bringing them over to the table.

“I’ve missed you,” Harry says and he’s barely got his hands wrapped around the mug.

Louis closes his eyes as he takes a sip, “I’ve missed you, too,” he murmurs.

 

+

 

_Drunk on far too expensive red wine from the South of France, they dance to the sounds of The Beatles playing over the old vinyl player sat in the corner of the room._

_It’s the middle of the afternoon and the winter sun is streaming through the curtains, bathing them in a golden glow. The wood fire’s on, crackling in the fireplace, spitting sparks as it spreads a warmth through the room._

_There’s a jump from a scratch on the record in exactly three seconds and three seconds later, Louis jumps with it, tripping over Harry’s feet as they giggle into a kiss._

_Too much teeth from too wide smiles, they grip each other tight. It’s clumsy and sweet and when they pull back, Harry grabs Louis’ hand, twirling him under his arm._

 

+

 

They fuck that night. It’s with bruising kisses and tight holds, slick with sweat as they move together under the covers. Louis’ quiet and Harry’s loud.

Biting back breathy moans, Louis gasps as Harry rocks into him, the bed creaking underneath them. His ankles are hooked behind Harry’s back and his hands are grasping at Harry’s shoulders.

It starts as a hurricane - a flurry of emotions and a storm of desire. They push and pull, causing a mess and wrecking each other.

A mantra of words spill from Harry’s lips; Louis’ name over and over and in his head it’s; _I’ve missed this, I’ve missed you._ Harry slows the pace and Louis becomes more frantic, gasping every time he pushes forward.

Louis’ comes first with little _uh, uh, uh_ noises that Harry’s knows so well. He comes with his eyes closed and head turned to the side and Harry keeps moving.

Harry comes soon after to Louis mumbling his name, gripping his biceps tight and looking him directly in the eye.

They clean up and Louis rolls over, back to Harry and the space is a canyon between them. They don’t sleep tangled together, legs intertwined and hands clasped. They sleep with that space not getting any smaller between them.

 

+

 

When Harry wakes it’s to an empty bed and it’s something he could’ve called last night. He crawls out of bed, the cold air hitting his semi-naked body and causes goosebumps to form over his arms and legs.

(Louis never did bother to put the fire on in the mornings.)

Harry gets dressed quickly, pulling an old jumper over his head before stumbling down the stairs and into the kitchen.

There’s a tea sitting on the kitchen table in the pink floral mug that he always uses and Louis’ standing by the sink, hip cocked against it as he cups his own (purple) mug in his hand, sipping at it slowly, watching Harry with intense, calculate eyes.

“So,” Louis says without the intention of continuing.

“So,” Harry repeats, ducking his head as he takes a sip of the tea, too bitter without sugar. His long hair falls in front of his face, the curls resting against his cheekbones

“You’re wearing my jumper” Louis says, shaking his head. Then; “What am I even doing here?”

 _Because you want to be,_ Harry thinks; “I don’t know.”

“I’m not tip-toeing around his Harry, I can’t do that to myself - I can’t do that to you. All you had to do was leave me a voicemail and it’s been three years, three fucking years and I’m here. I just turned up here because I knew what you meant and I listened to the song and I _knew_.”

“Lou,” Harry says, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Everyone told me not to come.”

“But you’re here,” Harry replies; “That means something, right?"

“I can’t - _you broke my heart._ I can’t just forget that,” Louis’ fingers are twitching in a way that Harry recognises; the small ticks he has before he starts crying. Harry doesn’t think he’s okay enough to watch Louis cry right now. And he doesn’t think Louis’ okay enough to cry in front of him either.

“I’m not asking for that, Louis, I can’t ask for that from you.”

Louis sighs, taking a deep breath before shaking his head; “I’m - I’m gonna go get us some food, yeah? I know you didn’t eat last night, you must be starving.”

Harry takes the change of subject as a _later_ and not a _never._

 

+

 

It’s freezing outside and Harry’s got a scarf around his neck and he presses his face into it as he finally manages to get a few bars of signal and sends out a text after trying and trying; _I’m with Lou._

It barely takes a minute for his phone to start ringing, the shrill ringtone echoing around the still garden.

Harry answers it without thinking, slides his thumb across the screen before bringing the phone to his ear; “I’m not surprised,” Niall says, his voice crackled through the unreliable signal, “That song is beautiful.”

“Mmm,” Harry smiles sadly, looks down at the floor as he breathes out the smoke from the cigarette he had just inhaled. “We had sex last night.”

There’s a slight pause then a sigh and the wind picks up slightly and Harry shivers. “I’m not surprised,” Niall says, then, “Where are you? I can barely hear - oh. Harry.”

“I - he knew, Niall. I didn’t even tell him anything, just that I was coming home and he came. He fucking came, Ni. He’s here - well, we fucked last night and he left this morning to get food and he’s coming back. I know he’s gonna come back but it won’t be for ages because we’re in the middle of nowhere and you probably can’t hear me but the house is so dusty and - and… I thought this was going to fix things but now I’m not so sure.”

He stops, shakes his head before taking another pull from his cigarette.

“Harry,” Niall says slowly, “just don’t - ”

“Break his heart?”

“Or your own,” Niall sighs; “Look, H. I love you, you know tha’ and you’ve gotten better but now you’re with him again? Don’t fuck with yourself, alright? Just talk to him, set things straight. Don’t fuck about and don’t fuck this up.”

“I’m trying,” Harry replies, smoking the last of his cigarette before letting it drop to the floor, “I’m trying.”

“I can’t hear you that well, but,” he mumbles something Harry can’t pick out over the crackling of the line; “I love you, see you soon, yeah?”

“Love you, Ni.”

The line goes dead as he squashes the cigarette with the toe of his shoe before going inside, throwing his scarf over the back of the loveseat.

Maybe it’s time to get rid of some of this dust.

 

+

 

When Louis comes home it’s with a boot full of food and (much needed) alcohol. Harry goes out in only his socks, on the balls of his feet as he treads cautiously on the stone driveway, to help bring in the shopping.

“You must’ve paid a fortune in carrier bags,” Harry says as he picks up three with one hand.

“Eh,” Louis says, shrugging, voice mumbled from the car keys in his mouth. Harry reaches over slowly and takes them from him, neither of them flinching but both watching with wide eyes; “Worth it.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, locking the car behind him.

“Yeah,” Louis repeats, kicking the front door open, walking into the kitchen with Harry tight on his heels before dumping the bags by the sink. “Fuck it’s cold outside.” He stops then turns to Harry, turning on his heel before pointing a finger at him with a smile twisting at the corner of his lips; “Yes, I know it’s winter, H, you don’t need to remind me.”

Harry frowns before quirking his lips and holding his hands up in surrender, the bags hitting his elbows; “Wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“Yeah, you were,” Louis mutters, digging into one of the bags to pull out a KitKat.

“Hey,” Harry moans, dragging out the vowel, “Where’s my chocolate bar?”

Louis laughs, “You’re some hippy Californian, you probably live on that green kale shit and ‘organic’ smoothies.”

“Is Californian even a word?” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

“It is now,” Louis replies swiftly, dropping down into one of the chairs and lifting his feet onto the other before opening the chocolate bar and taking a bite, not taking his eyes off Harry. There’s laughter there and Harry knows that he’s mocking him and he crosses his arms.

“I cleaned this whole place and you don’t even buy me chocolate! What kind of person are you?” He braces his arms on the back of the chair Louis has his feet on, rocking forwards, shoulders bunched up high.

“You cleaned it?”

“Mmm,” Harry hums, “Dust was starting to make my asthma kick in.”

Louis shrugs; “Of course, yeah.”

Harry rocks back onto his heels and lets go of the chair and grabs some of the stuff from the bags, beginning to put it away. “Does the fridge still work?”

“Turned it on last night to put the milk away,” Louis says, watching as Harry methodically puts everything in it’s place. “You cleaned the whole place?”

“You were gone a while,” Harry shrugs, throwing a bag of crisps in a cupboard, “You bought so much food.”

“Well, you know,” Louis says, throwing his wrapper in the bin, “might need it.”

Harry tries not to smile into the fridge as he moves the milk from where Louis had left it on it’s side to the shelf on the door but fails miserably.

When he turns back to Louis, he’s putting the bread in the bread bin and the tips of his ears are pink.

 

+

 

“You, um,” Louis begins, startling Harry from the book he’d been reading - one he’d read a hundred times before. He throws his copy of Peter Pan down on the desk where the record player sits and turns to Louis; “You have anyone back, um, back home?”

And there’s that word. Home.

“There have been a few people,” Harry says, shrugging his shoulders, “Few guys and a couple of girls. Nothing now, though.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, smiling up at him; “Didn’t realise you were bi.”

“Well,” Harry shrugs, “We never really labeled ourselves did we? I mean, I knew I was attracted to all genders but it was always you. That never really mattered to me.”

“You’re not out?” Louis asks, getting up so that he can cross his legs underneath him, sitting cross-legged on the sofa.

“I’m out to the people who matter,” Harry says, “I - I don’t hide it. But it’s just, it’s me isn’t it. If people can figure it out from, like, my words and my actions then, well, kudos to them, I guess. It’s not a secret.”

“No?”

“Never has been really, has it?” Harry says with a half-smile on his face before he swings his feet to the ground, turning all his attention to Louis; “What about you? Any guys?”

“Nah,” Louis shrugs, kicking his feet up to rest on the arm of the loveseat, “Same as you really, minus the girls, of course.”

Harry laughs even though it’s a stab to the heart; “What was it like?” Harry asks, “Coming out?”

“Eh,” Louis says as he slips his shoes off of his feet and they fall to the floor with a thump, “Bit of nasty backlash but that was to be expected. But, like, I don’t know. Wasn’t as scary as I thought it was gonna be, you know? It was like - hey, I can go out now and not hide away from the world.”

 _I know,_ Harry screams in his mind, _we spent hours talking about the time we’d be out together._ “Are you happy?”

Louis pauses for a moment, surprise flittering across his face for barely a split second before he studys Harry’s face with guarded eyes. But then he relaxes and he shrugs, a small smile on his face; “Yeah, I am.”

Harry smiles and it’s genuine, spreading across his face as he gets up and put a vinyl on the player and sets it up.

He catches Louis watching him fiddle with the player, looking as if he’s seen a ghost.

Harry thinks maybe he has.

“Are you?” Louis asks just before Harry drops the needle down onto the record. “Are you happy?”

And Harry stops and thinks, nodding his head unconsciously, “Yeah,” he says, frowning at the truth that’s spilling from his lips; “Yeah, I think I am.”

 

+

 

Harry makes bolognaise for dinner to the sounds of Fleetwood Mac playing in the background. He cries as he cuts the onions and laughs when Louis offers to help.

They talk about nothing, really. They catch up on the little things, Harry standing by the oven with a glass of red wine in his hand and Louis sits at the table with his own glass in front of him.

Harry finds out that Louis has a new scar on the bottom of his foot from drunkenly treading on a piece of broken glass and Harry tells Louis of the time he slipped down a hill on a run and broke his ankle. And together they remember the time Louis got bitten by a sea urchin before their audition at Simon’s house.

Which then leads on to; “Remember that time we climbed a mountain in Cape Town just so you could get naked at the top?”

To;  “Remember when we played the fucking Olympics? That’s fucking crazy.”

And; “Remember that show we had to cancel in Belfast because Liam got the shits?”

Then; “Remember after that show in Chicago and we ran away for the night and sat in an empty field and watched the stars?”

It’s nostalgia of the best kind. The one with laughter and bright smiles and remembering pointless memories and memories that matter too much.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing and he knows Louis doesn’t either.

But they’re both here and that’s enough.

 

+

 

_“Tell me a story,” Harry says from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table as he closes his journal._

_Louis’ standing in only his boxers and Harry’s shirt that hangs from his shoulders loosely. He turns his head over at Harry and grins. He brings their tea over to the tiny table, the cups shaking on the saucers as Louis walks forward; “Okay,” he says._

_It’s a thing, this is, Louis making up stories of the people who lived in this house before them. Elaborate, fantasy drawn, ridiculous stories of knights and dragons and queens to simple stories of loved-up married old couples who never leave the house._

_“He was a writer,” he begins and Harry cups his hands around the mug, eyes fixed on Louis; “Wrote stories upon stories; stories of different universes, stories of reality. He wrote about the lives he wanted but couldn’t have.”_

_Harry hums and watches the column of Louis’ throat as he takes a sip of tea; “He couldn’t leave the house, you see. His anxiety helped him to push everyone away until it was only him and his stories that he didn’t share with anyone.”_

_“That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?” Harry says, shrugging._

_“Not really,” Louis replies, a smile twitching on the corners of his lips; “He was happy and that’s all that mattered. Getting lost in the stories he wrote that no one else ever read.”_

_“I like this one best,” Harry says, smiling at his boyfriend._

_Louis laughs, leaning over the table and pressing a smacking kiss to Harry’s lips. “You say that every time, love.”_

_Harry blushes then shrugs, finally taking a sip of his tea that’s cooled down enough for him not to burn his tongue. “I mean it this time.”_

_Louis just lets out a burst of laughter before hooking his ankle around Harry’s under the table and they sit there and Harry writes down lyrics in his leather-bound journal about getting lost in fairytales._

 

+

 

He wakes up to a slight hangover, a sour taste in his mouth and an empty bed. He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He rolls his shoulder before stretching his arms over his head.

Sliding out from under the warmth of the heavy duvet, he gets to his feet and sleepily stumbles from the room and down the stairs to the kitchen.

“You’re cooking,” Harry says the moment he sees Louis standing at the oven, frying pan on the hob, spitting and sizzling.

Louis laughs quietly; “I’m not completely incompetent. It’s only bacon.”

Harry just smiles as he slides into the seat at the table, watching as Louis slides a cup of tea over to him; complete with sugar. He hums as he sips at his mug, still too hot.

He watches Louis wander around the kitchen with tired eyes, chin resting on his hand as he traces his finger around the rim of the mug. He smiles softly and yawns.

“You look like a fuckin’ kitten when you yawn,” Louis says, gently placing two plates on the table.

“Shu-up,” Harry mumbles through another yawn, muffling it behind the back of his hand, before shooting a blinding smile towards Louis. He swears Louis’ eyes grow wide for a split-second and his mouth drops open, but then he’s falling into the wooden chair opposite Harry and takes a bite of his bacon sandwich.

“We should go for a walk,” Louis says with a fleck of ketchup on the corner of his mouth that Harry’s itching to reach over and wipe away with his thumb. Wants to frame Louis’ face with his hands, wipe away that speck of red with a thumb before pressing a kiss to his lips.

But not now. He doesn’t have the right.

“A walk?”

“Yeah,” Louis says with a shrug and he sounds hesitant as he speaks,  “We could go see if that old telephone box is still there?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling, “That would be nice.”

“Alright,” Louis says, grinning as he shoves the sandwich in his mouth; “You wash up while I shower, yeah?”

Harry rolls his eyes smiling, “Why do I have to wash up?”

“Oi,” Louis says, pointing a finger at Harry, laughter in his eyes, “I cooked for you, the least you can do is wash up, hey?”

Shrugging, Harry finishes off his own sandwich and gets to his feet, “I guess that’s true.”

Louis smiles and touches Harry’s lower back for a fleeting moment before letting his hand drop heavily to his side. “I won’t be too long.”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs and doesn’t watch as Louis walks away.

 

+

 

With a coat wrapped around his shoulders and scarf around his neck, Harry fumbles with the pack of Marlboros in his coat pocket. The clouds in the sky are overcast and stormy and Harry thinks maybe it’s not the best time for a walk but he doesn’t say a thing as he pulls a cigarette from the packet.

“H,” Louis says, uncharacteristically quiet and Harry turns on his heel watching as Louis looks up at him with wide eyes, his scarf billowing in the wind; “Please don’t.”

“Oh,” Harry replies, just as quietly and it can barely be heard over the rustling of the trees; “Sorry.”

He sticks it back in the box and flips it closed before shoving it in the back pocket of his jeans. He presses his hands into his coat pockets and hides the way they’re shaking.

Louis brushes past him gently and walks towards the woods that surround the cottage.

The sound of their feet falling against the ground, crunching on leaves and twigs is the only other sound to be heard over the wind. Their breathing is quiet and tension is thick in the air even though it shouldn’t be.

Harry feels on edge, feels like every step is building up to a crescendo and everything’s going to explode then fall and it won’t be the same. His hands are shaking and his can’t stop flicking his hair away from his face as he walks by Louis’ side.

“Lottie’s getting married,” Louis says and there’s a smile tugging on his lips. It’s not the crescendo Harry was expecting. Maybe it’s not a crescendo at all.

Harry grins, “She is?!”

“Yeah,” Louis says and his smile has grown into a huge grin fighting on his face, “He’s - he’s lovely and he makes her so, so, so happy and I’m just - I’m so happy for her, you know? I’m so glad she found someone.”

“That’s wonderful,” Harry says, shaking his head at the floor; “Wow.”

Louis hums in agreement, smiling at the sky.

“I still remember when she was sixteen and on tour with us and got her heart broken by that fucking dickhead - ”

“He was an _asshole_ ,” Louis says, shaking his head, “James - he’s so - he’s so good for her, you know? She’s so excited, you have no idea. She told me that he’s her…”

He trails off and it leaves Harry frowning, “She told you what?”

Louis lets out a shaking breath and shoves his own hands in his coat pockets. Harry wonders with his mind racing at one hundred miles an hour and he knows - he knows he doesn’t have a place in Louis’ life where he knows every little thing, where he knows everything from what he ate for breakfast to what his mum told him on the phone at lunch.

“She told me he’s her Harry.”

Harry’s breath hitches, stops in his throat, and his heart drops to his stomach and maybe this it is. Maybe this is the crescendo. His eyes are wide and his mind won’t stop and his hands are still shaking and he pulls them from his coat pockets, not sure what he’s going to do.

Louis’ looking up at him with wide, blue eyes and -

Droplets of rain start to fall from the sky and they both pull up their hoods and run. It’s like the sky has opened up above them and they somehow catch each other’s hand as they race.

Slipping and sliding on the now muddy ground, twigs still snapping underneath their shoes and their clothes getting soaked, they reach that old, bright red telephone box.

They jump inside, Harry slamming the door closed behind them and takes one look at Louis, his hood half off of his head and his hair dripping with rain and starts laughing. It’s loud, echoing around the small box and Louis’ soon joining in.

Their laughter dies down, softens to small giggles before all that can be heard is the rain and wind surrounding them.

“What are we doing?” Louis murmurs over the metallic sounds of the rain hitting the roof of the burning red telephone box. His hand twitches as if he’s about to reach up and touch Harry’s face but it falls at the last minute, hanging limply by his side.

“Hiding from the rain,” Harry shrugs, trying not to think about the receiver that’s sticking into his side from where they’re squashed together, or the closeness of Louis. The way it’s the closest he’s felt to him since he’s got here (even though it’s technically not). He doesn’t think about how he could count every eyelash and every freckle or how if he took a step forward their lips would be millimeters apart.

“Harry,” Louis says, shaking his head, looking down at the ground, scuffing his shoes on the hard floor.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies.

“That’s not - ” Louis begins, sighing before looking up, eyes hard and defiant, a fire burning behind his irises; “That’s not good enough, Harry. _You_ called _me_. You made that move and you wanted me here. You can’t just drag me here after everything and not have a clue what you’re doing. It’s not fair, it’s not fair.”

“I want - I just want to make this better. I don’t know, Lou. I don’t. I wrote that song, I wrote it with you in mind the whole time. Of course I did. There’s been some people, yeah, but they haven’t been you and I broke your heart and I ruined everything but you’re still here. You still came and that’s - that’s something to me at least. It must mean something to you, too.”

“Why do you think I came?” Louis asks and there’s tears in his voice that haven’t quite reached his eyes, his voice all raspy and choked up, “You think there’s been anyone that’s even compared to you? I - Harry, fuck. I heard that fucking song and I’ve had to hear it hundreds of times and it’s never got any easier.”

“I’m - ”

“Don’t, god, please. Don’t,” Louis says and there’s a tear dropping from his face and Harry can’t help but reach up and brush it away. “Don’t apologise, I’m not ready to hear it.”

“When we were writing it,” Harry says and there’s tears dripping from his own chin but Louis doesn’t wipe them away; “she told me she was writing it about fixing up past relationships. Not romantic ones, but friendships that have fallen apart as they do in life. But the whole time, all I could think about was you. It was all you. I miss you just in my life. I miss you the most, I realised, as my friend. As my best friend.”

“Do you know the amount of times I’ve gone to text you to go back and delete it? To call you in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep?” Louis asks. “When I’ve gone to book a flight to California, to get a jet and just leave and go to you?”

“No,” Harry says, blinking away his tears. Tilting his head up towards the red roof and closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath.

“Countless,” Louis whispers and his voice can barely be heard over the thumping of the rain above them.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Harry says and his tears haven’t stopped but Louis’ have started again, “I - I…”

“I’ve missed you, too, duck,” Louis whispers, voice hitching and Harry barely catches it.

Then Louis’ reaching forward, for the first time since he’d arrived in the cottage in the middle of nowhere, pulling Harry towards him. Wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and linking his hands behind his neck as Harry threads his around Louis’ waist.

They grasp at each other, tight and warm despite the cold in the air. It’s closeness and contact and it’s intimacy. It’s Louis, Louis, Louis; a musky smell with a hint of tea and chocolate. And Harry just buries his face into Louis’ neck and never wants to let go.

He doesn’t want this moment to end because it’s the closest he’s felt to Louis since he got here. It’s the closest he’s felt to him in years. Even when they were messing up their covers, pulling each other closer, he still felt that canyon between them.

But now it’s like a wall has crumbled and they’re one step closer to something that Harry can’t put his finger on.

This is the crescendo he’s been feeling all day reaching it’s peak and he only hopes it’ll calm from now even though he knows it won’t. When they leave, is stomach will still be in bits and his mind will still be whirring but right now, it’s like everything’s frozen in place and all that matters is Louis holding on to him just as tight as Harry’s grasping onto him.

In a bright red telephone box with rain pouring from the heavens, splattering against metal and glass, they don’t let go of each other; a mess of tears and emotions.

 

+

 

When they get back to the cottage, Louis goes for a drive and Harry cries to himself on the armchair. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his sleeves are pulled over his hands as he wipes away the tears.

It’s so much, everything’s too much.

Choking on sobs and trying to muffle his cries curled up on the armchair that he’s never used before this week, Harry tries to breathe. He knows he should probably call his mum or Gemma or Niall. He should probably talk it through with someone else but he just - he wants to keep it to himself.

He cries and cries in a way he hasn’t let himself since he got on that plane with no intention to come back. He thinks of home and doesn’t think of California, he doesn’t think of early morning walks on the beach with sand between his toes. He doesn’t think of the warm tide breaking against his ankles. It’s not the hot weather, sun beating down on his neck as he heads to studio after studio.

It’s cold, winter morning and kisses that taste of tea. It’s snuggling up under a blanket and watching meaningless TV. It’s that bright, tinkling laugh and those warm blue eyes.

He realises that all this time home has never been a place.

 

+

 

He’s cutting up a spring onion when Louis walks in.

“Hey,” he says and his voice is warm and soft and slightly scratchy but he’s here, “Want any help?”

Harry shrugs; “Sure, was just gonna make a stir fry and I’m pretty much done with the veg so if you just put the noodles on that’d be great.”

“Okay,” Louis says and he sound so small and Harry - Harry doesn’t know how to take it.

The weird thing, however, is that the silence is comfortable. It’s not awkwardly avoiding each other and there’s no tension crackling in the air, it’s them working together to make dinner and that’s something.

It’s enough.

 

+

 

“Is it selfish of me to want to tell you I’m sorry?” Harry says when they’re in bed together, his breath hitching as fists the duvet covers in his hands. “I need to tell you, I need you to know but you don’t want to hear it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I don’t want to fucking hear it, Harry, okay?” Louis says and it’s the reaction Harry’s been looking for; “I don’t want excuse after excuse and explanations just for them to fall flat and for everything to go to fucking shit, again. I can’t put myself through that. I’m not doing that.”

“I can’t just wait around hanging for you to be ready though, Louis. I’m not putting _myself_ through that,” Harry replies and he’s angry. So very angry. “I’m not sitting here, ready with an apology for you not to listen and for you to keep me hanging along for you not to accept it. I want you to understand so we can figure things out, so I can keep you in my life. But I don’t even know if you want that. Fuck, I don’t even know if you want to be here.”

Louis stops and his eyes grow wide; “H,” he says slowly, “I want to be here, you know that I want to be here. You must know that. I’m just - this is so hard. It’s so hard and I - I got over you - ” Harry’s breath hitches and he avoids Louis’ eyes, his heart dropping to his stomach, “Or, I thought I did. I wanted to be. But now you’re here and I don’t - everything is a mess and we’ve barely spoken about it and I want this to be okay but I want to be able to trust you first. I don’t want to look at you and be in love with who you used to be. I want to look at you and trust you with my entire heart and my entire being and be in love with who you are now.”

“What are you feeling now?” Harry asks, rolling over on his side, facing away from Louis.

“We’re… we’re getting there, Haz,” Louis says and Harry feels Louis thread his fingers through his loose curls lightly, “We’re getting there.”

Harry falls asleep with his chest in pieces.

 

+

 

_“It’s worth it,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ collarbone from where he’s leaning against him; “We’re worth it.”_

_Louis hums as he cards his dainty fingers through Harry’s curls, trying to at least relieve some of the tension. Harry snuggles closer into Louis but still let's Louis lean on him for support too; holding each other up._

_It’s been a hectic, well, six months really. Nothing went the way they wanted and they couldn’t catch and break and everything seemed to be falling down around them._

_Between concerts and promo, fake dates and real dates and blurring the lines between the two, Harry is exhausted. He knows Louis is too, that Louis’ tired of everything. He’s been standoffish and snappy and he’s barely spoken to anyone in weeks and Harry doesn’t know how to help._

_They lean on each other for support and just breathe each other in and bask in their comfort and familiarity and_ home _._

_Louis stops and smiles for what seems like the first time in months; “Yeah,” he whispers into the darkness of the kitchen; “We are.”_

 

+

 

Harry sits on the cold, damp grass. There’s a cigarette hanging limply from his fingers and he’s barely taken one drag before he’s dropping it to the floor, letting it sizzle out amongst the wet blades of grass.

He’d woken up before Louis, put the kettle on and not made any tea. Instead, he had come outside cigarette in hand only to drop it to the floor like it had burned him.

He has his journal open on the grass as he pulls a pen from his pocket and writes. Little phrases he can turn into songs and long paragraphs he doesn’t want to read to anyone. He vents his feelings, his thoughts and himself onto the pages.

He’s scratching ink into the paper when he feels a hand touch his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Louis mutters and Harry snaps.

“No,” Harry says, throwing his journal against the floor before getting to his feet; “You don’t get to do that.”

“What?” Louis says, arms raised as if in defence, “What did I do?”

“You - you don’t get to come and _apologise_ to me when you won’t let me apologise to you. You can’t come here with your sorrys and your mixed signals. You can’t come here and not even try when I’m trying my hardest. I - I’m sorry I left. I’m fucking sorry. I said it and I mean it,” Harry chokes back a sob, “How could I not mean it?”

“Harry, I - ” Louis pauses, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Just - let me talk to you, please,” Harry says, “I’m done with being scared of scaring you away. I need to explain things and I need to tell you what I’m feeling. You say you don’t know me but you do, Lou, you know me. I’m still Harry Styles, that sixteen year old boy in the toilets in Manchester. I’ve grown up, yeah? I’ve grown up but I’m still me, I’m still - I’m…”

Harry trails his sentence off, letting the words die on his tongue before reaching down and grabbing his journal and making his way inside.

“Okay,” Louis says and Harry pauses on the threshold, “Okay.”

 

+

 

It’s like a window has been left open all night and the coldness has seeped into the house. Sticking to the stone flooring and wooden chairs.

Louis never puts the fire on, it’s always Harry.

It’s always Harry who’s stacking the dry logs and twigs up in the fireplace before throwing lighter fluid over them. It’s always Harry who almost burns himself when he strikes at the matches. It’s always Harry.

He never used to mind, would never mind setting it all up and making the house cozy and warm. But now, now that the tiny, little cottage is full of coldness, Harry shivers as he lights it. Even as the flames go up, licking at the brick and emitting a burst of heat, there’s still a coldness surrounding him.

Everything seems distant and out of reach. It’s like he’s grasping at thin air, trying to search for something he can’t find.

Harry takes advantage of the heat anyway; throws his hands up and tries to warm his body. Tries to shake the feeling that has settled deep within his bones.

When Louis comes back into the living room, Harry’s curled up in front of the fire like a cat. He has a book in his hand, flicking through the pages he’s so familiar with.

“Again?” Louis asks, smiling softly over at Harry before slumping down into the armchair.

“Mhmm,” Harry mutters, eyes on the ink but his mind is on the boy sitting in the corner. His heart skips in his chest slightly; sinking. They’re not going to talk about it then apparently.

The cold sends another shudder through his body and he ignores the way Louis’ watching him from the corner of his eyes.

 

+

 

Louis wakes before Harry once again but this time he’s not in the house. When Harry makes his way downstairs, pajama bottoms hanging off his hips, his shoes are gone but his car keys are still there.

A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s almost noon so Harry assumes he’s gone for a walk, to clear his head or something. Maybe he should do the same. It’s getting a bit stuffy here and he thinks he’s seeing things from the corners of his eyes. Ghosts and orbs flittering around the old house.

Shaking his head he grabs his jacket from the hook by the front door and shrugs it over his shoulders. Patting down the pockets to check his cigarettes are still there, he goes back to the back door and pushes it open.

Louis’ walking across the garden, hair flat on his head and Harry’s scarf wrapped around his neck. Harry just sighs before pulling a cigarette from the packet.

With it trapped between his teeth, he flicks at his lighter and let’s the flame lick at the end of the cigarette before it catches. He breathes in the smoke, holds it in his lungs for a second before letting it billow out.

He catches Louis watching as he walks past, catching his sigh of annoyance and the slight shake of his head but Harry doesn’t stop. He just rolls his eyes and listens as Louis starts clattering around in the kitchen.

 

+

 

“Why do you even smoke anyway?” Louis asks, sitting cross-legged by the fire Harry built.

Harry just shrugs, putting his book down; “It’s what all the cool kids are doing, int’it?”

Louis frowns, “It’ll kill you.”

“No shit,” Harry says, laughing as he rolls his eyes; “Thank you for informing me of that, it’s not like you smoked for years or anything.”

Louis goes still, “I quit, though, you had no reason to start.”

“No reason?” Harry says, sitting upright, “Really, Louis? You can’t think of _anything_.”

“Don’t get fuckin’ sarcy with me, it was just a question.”

“No it wasn’t,” Harry replies, “I don’t know what you’re aim is but it wasn’t just a harmless question.”

“I don’t know why you’re back and it’s doing my head in,” Louis spits and oh, so they’re doing this now.

“I’m back because I _want_ to be back and you’re here because you want to be here,” Harry says, eyes hard and all of a sudden their electricity crackling in their air, as if a single spark will ignite it all.

“I don’t even know if I want to be here,” Louis says, shaking his head with a slight, humourless laugh, “You’re the one who asked me to come.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you to come, you just came,” Harry replies scathingly, “You don’t even have to be here, why don’t you just go back to Donny or London or wherever the fuck you live?”

“Why don’t you run back to LA like you always do, huh?” Louis says and there’s a bite to his tone that Harry doesn’t recognise and it hurts. He’s breathing hard and heavy and Harry knows that this is it.

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head; “I don’t fucking run back to LA, you know that. I have a life there, that’s why I go back. I don’t fucking run.”

Louis huffs out a laugh and gets to his feet, holding his hands up; “If that’s what you wanna tell yourself.” His eyes are wide in disbelief as he shakes his head.

“It’s what I tell myself because it’s the truth,” Harry replies harshly, getting to his own feet.

“Nothing’s fucking changed,” Louis says, “You’re ignoring the problems as usual.”

“ _As usual,_ ” Harry mocks, “It’s been three years in case you’ve forgotten.”

“How could I fucking forget?” Louis says, raising his voice, “You’re still the fucking same as you were before.”

And that - the way Louis spits it out, it hurts, “You were in love with that me,” he says, shaking his head.

“Maybe I was,” Louis says, “But it’s not like I _choose_ who I fall in love with.”

“Fuck you,” is all Harry can manage, “Fuck you, Louis Tomlinson.”

“Fuck you, too,” Louis says, pulling his coat over his shoulders and storming towards the door.

“You know there’s more to it,” Harry shouts before Louis slams the door; “Stop pretending there isn’t.”

The door clicks shut and the house goes still and Harry shivers.

 

+

 

Louis’ not back by the time Harry cooks dinner but he makes it anyway, despite the coldness filtering through the house. Despite the way everything he seems to pick up is frozen and how he’s wearing three layers and _still fucking cold._

He wishes he had come back in the summer because at least then he’d be warm, free from this horrible feeling deep in his bones and in his veins.

He leaves a plate of spaghetti bolognaise covered on the kitchen table for when Louis comes back and falls asleep with his book in his hand, snuggled under the duvet, trying to draw as much head from it as he can.

He drifts off into a restless sleep and wakes to the sounds of Louis trying to be quiet and discreet.

“Wha’ you doing?” Harry yawns, blinking himself away and focusing his eyes in the dark room.

“You said I don’t have to be here,” Louis says and Harry goes still; “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“You’re leaving,” Harry states and it’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Louis says, throwing the last of his stuff into his leather bag; “I can’t fucking do this, I can’t be here.”

“Fine,” Harry says, rolling over in the bed, “Fucking fine, leave.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to let the tears fall and misses the way Louis hesitates in the doorway before trudging down the stairs; bag hitting the wall every so often.

He doesn’t miss the sound of an engine starting or the sound of a car driving across stone until it’s gone.

 

+

 

It takes him a while to get out of bed the next day. There’s no-one to get up for, no-one to cook for and no-one to talk to. He supposes he needs to get the dust covers back out and throw them over everything once again.

He wonders how much dust will gather by the next time he comes that if he even comes back again.

He stumbles downstairs, yawning with red-rimmed eyes before freezing when he steps into the living room.

“You’re still here,” he says, eyes wide, “Why are you still here?”

Louis just shrugs and doesn’t turn around but Harry takes it for what it is and his heart feels a bit lighter. There’s still tension in the air and it’s still cold but it’s not freezing and the fire’s on.

 

+

 

The thing with fires is that they burn out quickly if you don’t tend to them. If you leave them be they’ll eventually turn to ash as they die down; the embers will stop glowing and the heat will fade.

It’ll burn out until there’s nothing left.

It’ll burn out until everything is cold.

 

+

 

“I don’t know why we’re still here,” Harry says down the phone between checking over his shoulder to make sure Louis’ not within hearing range and taking drags from his cigarette. “He doesn’t want to be here.”

“Do you?” Niall says and Harry stops. He thinks about the deep, unsettling feeling that’s sunk deep in his body, thinks about the ghosts of memories; good and bad. He thinks about Louis walking out and he thinks about everything in between.

“I - ” Harry stutters, “No. I don’t want to be here when it’s like this. It’s cold and horrible, it’s like there’s nothing I can do anymore to fix this and I don’t know if I can. Why are we here when neither of us really want to be here? I don’t understand…”

“Haz,” Niall says, “Have you really tried though?”

“Of course I have! He won’t - ”

Niall cuts him off, “Look, H. I was talking to Li and Z about it and - neither of you know what you’re doing and that’s okay. It’s going to take work. It’s not going to just fall into your hands like it did when it started.”

“It’s shit,” Harry says, “It’s complete, utter, fucking shit.”

“I know,” Niall replies.

“I don’t even know if he wants to fix it.”

“Well,” Niall says softly, “There’s your starting point, eh?”

“I guess you’re right,” Harry sighs, dropping the cigarette butt into the empty flower pot.

“Always am, lad,” Niall says and Harry can almost hear the small smile on his face; “Always am.”

 

+

 

It’s dark when Harry gets off the phone to Niall. They had already eaten the left of spaghetti Harry had made earlier and Harry guesses it’s probably nearing twelve and he feels a pang of guilt at keeping Niall on the phone so late.

“You don’t know if I want to fix this?” Louis says, eyes wide, harsh and confused. Harry stands still, letting the door click shut behind him. Louis heard. He heard it all. “Why do you think I’m fucking here?”

“You almost left, didn’t you?” Is all Harry can think of to say when his mind is spinning like this.

“But I’m here,” Louis says, shaking his head; “I - I…”

“Just go,” Harry says, a sob catching in his throat, “If you don’t want to be here, if you think nothing’s changed, just go.”

Louis shakes his head and Harry sees the way he hesitates, sees the way Louis can tell it’s his way out. But Louis doesn’t leave.

Instead Louis crowds into him, pushing him backwards against the wall as he grabs hold of his hips. There’s something fiery in his eyes, glinting in danger and when Harry catches sight of it he loses his breath. It’s like a reflection of the fire that’s burning in the grate behind them, flames licking up the brick wall, hot and heavy.

Then Louis’ leaning in, capturing their lips in a kiss. It’s harsh; biting at lips and catching teeth. Louis’ gripping Harry’s hips tight enough to leave bruises. They both lose their shirts in a haste, fumbling fingers undoing buttons and grasping hands pulling up t-shirts.

Louis pushes Harry back against the wall, his bare skin cold against the wallpaper. They kiss like their lives depend on it and when Harry pulls back slightly, Louis’ groans as Harry starts kissing down the column of his neck before sucking his own bruise into the dip by his collarbone.

With his head is thrown back in ecstasy and eyes shut tight, Louis breathes out little gasps, moaning in pleasure.

As he pulls away from the temptation of Louis’ skin, he catches his gaze as his eyes focus. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are kiss-bitten red and there’s a flush on his cheeks that Harry knows is spreading down his chest.

There’s a few moments of heavy breaths into each other’s mouths before they’re kissing again. Tongues tangling together as Harry threads a hand into the hair on the back of Louis’ head. Then Louis is knocking Harry’s hand away and framing Harry’s face with his own hands, pulling him closer. They kiss and kiss and it’s desire and lust and his heart is beating like a rabbit in his chest.

In a burst of energy, he spins them both around; flipping their position. He spreading his hands underneath Louis’ arse, squeezing slightly before hoisting him up and pressing him back against the wall. Louis’ ankles automatically hook together behind Harry’s sweat-slick back.

Louis pulls him back in for a kiss, his hands grappling at Harry’s hair, pulling slightly at the long curls and Harry’s eyes flicker shut and he lets out a breathy moan; “Fuck, Louis.”

“Like that, huh?” Louis mutters questioningly even though the answer is obvious before he pulls harder and crashing their lips together.

“You don’t even,” Harry gasps into the kiss, mumbling against Louis’ lips, “You don’t fucking know.”

Louis kisses at the side of Harry’s neck, nipping at the skin and all Harry can do is moan into the stiflingly hot air as Louis’ hands start wandering. “I do.”

It’s like he’s everywhere. On his skin, in his mind, in his heart. He can feel him on every inch of his skin and it’s driving Harry crazy. His eyes are blown wide and he’s biting at his lip, head slumped forward but tilted slightly to the side to give Louis room.

He doesn’t want Louis to stop, wants him to keep touching, keep his hands trailing down his body and pinching at his overly sensitive nipples. He wants him to keep leaving trails of goosebumps along his skin wherever he touches.

Then Louis’ pressing one hand to the bulge in Harry’s joggers, pressing down and Harry groans, rocking into the touch.

“More,” Harry moans just as Louis tightens his ankles, forcing Harry to be pulled closer; wrapped tighter into Louis’ web. He stumbles ungracefully forward but then Louis rocking his own hips forward and Harry’s brain short circuits. “Fuck.”

There’s stutters and moans on Harry’s lips but all he can do is grasp Louis’ bum tighter, pulling him as they rock into each other in an irregular rhythm. Harry’s rock hard and he can feel that Louis is too.

The way he’s biting into Harry’s shoulder sends shivers down his spine. How every time he rocks his hips forward, pressing their dicks together, brushing them against one another, he bites just a bit harder as if concealing his groans.

“Bedroom?” Harry asks, shuddering with pleasure.

Louis nods into Harry’s neck before letting his feet fall to the floor. He pushes Harry away from the wall, kissing him eagerly as he guides him towards the stairs. They trip and stumble on their way up the stairs but don’t stop touching. Can’t stop touching.

It’s like Louis is his drug.

“Fucking hell,” Louis mutters when he pushes Harry backwards onto the bed. He lays there stark naked after they’d ripped their clothes from their bodies on their way to their bedroom.

He lifts his gaze up to Louis under hooded eyes that he’s sure are filled with desire and just looks at him. Looks at his golden skin and the way his collarbones jut out and the bruise just underneath. He looks at his chest and the smattering of hair there and how his abs clench in the cool air flowing through the window.

He looks at his cock. He looks at the way it curves upwards and he’s so fucking hard.

“We shouldn’t,” Harry mutters as Louis moves onto the bed and crowds over him, breath coming out in heavy gasps; “We shouldn’t.”

“I know,” Louis says, pressing down against Harry. Their cocks brush and they both gasp, “But I want to.”

“Me too,” Harry replies, letting his eyes flutter shut when Louis starts pressing kisses to the ferns tattooed on his hips.

Slowly, he makes his way further down and Harry throws an arm over his face, breathing out in short gasps, his chest heaving. Louis’ kissing at the top of his legs and Harry just lets them fall open.

Louis takes it for the invitation it is and all of a sudden Louis’ licking at the tip, once, twice, before letting his jaw drop open and taking Harry in his mouth.

Harry’s hands automatically go for Louis’ hair, grasping tight as he groans as Louis flicks his tongue. All he can hear is his own breathing and everything is Louis, Louis, _Louis_.

He misses the click of the cap of the bottle of lube and it’s only when Louis is pulling back that Harry breathes.

“Can I?” Louis asks, voice scratchy and breathless as he presses a finger to Harry’s hole when he nods with wide eyes.

“Yeah, fuck, Lou,” Harry whispers, throwing his head back against the pillows and when Louis pushes his slick finger inside, he moans; “Fuck.”

Louis crawls up the bed after sliding another finger in and kisses Harry. It’s hot and heavy and Harry’s writhing on the bed. He feels breathless, like he can’t _breathe._ But Louis’ there, he’s there right in front of him.

“Fuck me,” Harry mutters as Louis presses another finger in and Harry’s breath hitches once again and his chest goes tight; “I want you so bad.”

“Yeah?” Louis murmurs, fingers still scissoring inside of Harry and he still knows exactly where to crook them and when to do it to make Harry feel it the most; “Want me inside of you?”

“Y-yeah,” Harry stutters, shuddering as Louis pulls his fingers free, wiping them on the covers.

With both arms over his face, he tries to control his breathing, tries to stop his heaving chest and tries to ignore the way his dick is aching for a touch.

Then Louis’ in between his legs and Harry hooks them behind Louis’ back, can feel the tip of his dick against his hole. He pushes in slowly and Harry cries out into the hot air.

Hands are pulling at his, pulling arms from his eyes and he blinks as Louis rocks forward. Tangling their fingers together, he holds his hands above his head.  Louis thrusts into him, stuttering out moans and gasps, fingers in a vice-like hold on Harry’s.

He kisses him, then. He kisses him and he tastes of sweat and Harry and there’s still a slight hint of something so, excruciatingly _Louis._ In reality, it’s barely a kiss, it’s a brush of lips, panting into each other’s mouth, moaning when he hits the right spot.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters, moving his mouth away, closing his eyes before resting his forehead in the crook of Harry’s neck. “God, H.”

Louis twists his hips and Harry’s toes curl, his biting his lips and can’t move his hands from Louis’ grip and he feels so full. He feels like Louis is burning against his skin, burning his mark into Harry.

Burning himself into Harry’s memories, his life and his body. The air is humid and the room probably smells of sex. The fire is still crackling downstairs and Harry thinks that maybe this is what getting burned feels like.

He can barely breathe when Louis hits that one spot just one too many times and he falls from the edge. Gasping and crying into the air as he comes, barely touched, between their bodies. Strings of come coating them as he shudders.

Louis gets almost frantic, biting his lips as he rocks harder and harder and Harry let’s him. He comes soon after Harry, into the condom.

And Harry kisses him when he comes. Let’s Louis groans into his mouth, stuttering out gasps and little hitches of breaths.

Then Louis’ letting go of Harry’s hands and pulling out. He rolls away, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and wipes away the sticky come before peeling off the condom.

The air is no longer crackling. It’s no longer a fire burning around them. It’s calm and all that’s left is ash and dust.

But Harry can’t tell if the house is still standing or not.

When Louis climbs out of bed and pulls on his boxer from the floor, Harry frowns. He frowns even harder when he pulls a blanket from the armchair in the corner and stumbles from the room.

Harry thinks about not following, about giving him space and letting him be himself without Harry. But then he’s already out of bed and into the now cooling air. He wipes off his own come with another tissue and throws it into the bin before pulling on boxers and a jumper that he thinks used to be Louis’.

When he slips into the lounge, it’s to find Louis’ sitting by the fire, shoulders hitching.

“You’re crying,” Harry says in shock, frozen to the spot. “I made you cry.”

Louis doesn’t reply, doesn’t even turn around and look at Harry. He just watches the fire burning in front of his eyes and Harry - Harry finds himself dropping down next to Louis, pulling the sleeves of the jumper down over his hands.

“We had sex and I made you cry,” Harry states once again. “I made you cry.”

“Not for the first time,” Louis says as if that doesn’t shoot Harry right in the heart; “I - I… Fuck, Harry.”

And it’s like a dam breaks and the tears won’t stop. He won’t look away from the fire, just lets them fall down his cheeks and drip off of his chin. There’s sobs scratching up his throat and Harry can’t tear his gaze away. “

“It’s - it’s… I don’t know anymore, H. I can’t do this, I can’t - god - I can’t just…” Louis grabs his hair in frustration; “We fell apart, Harry. We were the fucking world and we were worth it. We were worth everything and it’s - even afterwards, after you got on that plane and I felt like everything had fallen apart right in my hands, I never regretted it. I would do it over and over and over again, don’t you see that? I came here because you told me you were in the country and I knew, I just _knew_ that this is where you wanted me to be. I’d give myself to you over and over and over again even if it meant heartbreak after heartbreak just to have you by my side.”

“I would,” Harry manages to say through his tears; “I’d do _anything_ for you.”

“It wasn’t even the distance,” Louis says and he still won’t look at Harry, “It wasn’t that you were away and I was here. It wasn’t that. We just - we broke, bit by bit. We weren’t home for each other anymore.”

Harry lets out a sob because all this time, all these years, he’s been dealing with a heavy heart. Guilt biting at him, words that had been thrown echoing in his head. He’d gone to LA with a broken heart and come back with a fixed one just to get it torn to shreds again.

“It wasn’t - what we had, H, it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t entirely healthy. We depended too much on each other, we used each other. We relied on each other in ways we weren’t supposed to.”

“I know,” Harry whispers. The thing is, it’s the truth. They weren’t perfect, they weren’t always the best things for each other. They’d grown up together, matured together and become themselves together. They leaned on each other for everything, needed each other for everything and it - in the end it helped them fall apart. He feels the tears come once again as he nods, “We were worth it though,” Harry says.

“We are worth it,” Louis correct and he turns his head away from the fire and faces Harry, his eyes are glazing blue.  

Harry chokes on his tears and smiles through them; “We are.”

 

+

 

“You were it for me, you know?” Louis says, shrugging as they sit on the kitchen floor the next morning, throwing grapes between them.

Harry’s heart stutters in his chest and he misses the grape that’s thrown at his mouth; “Yeah?”

“I tried, you know? Went out with other people, a few semi-serious guys here and there but…” He trails off for a moment before continuing, “People would tell me I’d find someone and the thing is I did. I found people I know I’d be happy with, that I’d be able to live a life with and have a family with.”

“Why didn’t you?” Harry asks and his heart is beating like it already knows the answer.

“They weren’t you.”

Louis’ phone rings from where it’s sitting on the window sill, the only place you can get signal in the house and only when the window’s open, and the moment cracks. It shatters and Harry breathes through it.

“That’ll be me mum,” Louis says, smiling softly, “Excuse me for a mo’.”

Harry smiles and gets up off the floor, picking up the grapes that are scattered all across the tiles. He tries to shut out Louis’ voice and starts filling up the kettle.

“I’m in Somerset,” Louis says and Harry’s not trying to eavesdrop, he’s not, but it’s hard when Louis’ standing right by the open window and Harry’s making the tea that Louis hasn’t asked for yet. “No, no. Yeah, he is. I’m - I’m fine… Yeah. Mum, no. It’s not - ” He sighs as Harry starts pouring water into their mugs.

“I’m - we’re good, yeah?” He looks up to a wide eyed Harry, a small, shy smile on his face, “We’re good.”

 

+

 

Louis sets up the fire after the phone call, burns the logs and twigs that they’re starting to run low on and Harry can’t help but grin. The cold feeling is still there but it’s disappearing from his bones.  

“I don’t even drink tea anymore,” Harry mutters, passing a cup over to Louis. “Haven’t in years.”

“No?” Louis asks like he knows this is Harry’s way in, his way to start this conversation.

“Nope,” Harry says, popping the ‘p’ before taking a sip of tea, “Reminds me of home.”

“Home,” Louis says, “California?”

“No,” Harry says once again, “Home isn’t California, Lou. Home has never been LA. I’ve tried so hard, you know, to make it home and to make it work but it’s just not. I have a life there, yeah. But it’s - it’s not the same. I thought maybe it was just because we’d been on the road so long that I just couldn’t settle, but I’ve been there three years and it’s still not home.”

“What are you saying?” Louis asks and he looks small and shy and hopeful.

“I’m saying that I was wrong and that I’m sorry,” Harry says, shaking his head, “I’m saying that I want you in my life however you want me. I want you here, Lou. I’m saying that I want to try this again, if you do. I want to do it right.”

Louis’ silent for a few excruciatingly long moments and Harry’s heart has almost dropped to his stomach. But he knows that this is the moment, that this is it. This is the chance he may never get again and he’s sure as hell going to take it.

“Come to the wedding with me,” Louis says and - that’s not what Harry had been expecting. “Lottie’s. Be my date?”

Harry can’t help but let a grin cross his lips and he’s reaching past his tea and grasping Louis’ hands in his; “Yeah,” he says, “I’d be honoured, if they’ll have me of course.”

Louis rolls his eyes, smiling back, “Of course they will, of course.”

Then they’re both leaning closer unconsciously, across the small kitchen table until they’re millimeters apart. Harry holds his breath as Louis touches their noses together, breathing so close together.

It’s torturingly slow, the way Louis licks his lips before letting out a short breath. Harry’s eyes flicker shut and all he can do is wait. Louis presses forward, their noses touching as their lips brush, once, twice, three times before he’s pressing forward with force.

Curving his lips into Harry’s, moulding them together as if he’s there to stay and oh, how Harry hopes he is.

They move their lips together, pushing against each other and it’s soft and sweet. Harry’s chest is thumping from the way his heart is beating as he slides a hand to Louis’ cheeks, holding him close.

It’s intimate and warm and it’s everything Harry’s been missing. It’s all the warmth of the house in a single kiss, drawing all of the coldness away and heating it up.

It’s the fire that’s crackling in the other room, burning and heating up. It’s the steam that’s curling up from the mugs on the table, the air trying to squeeze between them but they won’t let it.

Kissing each other harder as Louis slips his tongue inside, tilting his head as he wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him closer, closer closer. And Harry just lets him; lets him pull him forward because that’s where he wants to be.

There’s still a table between them but it’s not a canyon, it’s not a barrier. And in that moment, he knows that his feelings haven’t diminished at all for the man in front of him. They’re flowing at full speed around his body, making him lightheaded as he pulls back.

He’s sure there’s sparkles in his eyes and his dimples are growing into his cheeks as his grins with laughter on his lips.

“Lou?” Harry says, “Are we gonna be okay?”

Louis smiles and looks up from under his eyelashes, “Yeah,” he says slowly, “I think we are.”

 

+

 

“Tell me a story,” Harry murmurs.

They’re on the loveseat, laying together, Harry between Louis’ legs as he rests his head on his chest. Their legs are hanging off the arm of the chair and Harry doesn’t want to move. Never wants to move again.

Louis hums before threading his fingers through Harry’s hair; “They were two boys.”

Harry’s breath hitches very slightly and Louis’ fingers pause for the smallest moment before continuing.

“They were two boys and they were oh, so in love. They had everything; the world, perfect jobs, money, a future, each other. They would come here and be with each other; escape from the real world because sometimes things got too much.”

Harry stays quiet as Louis pauses for moment before continuing; “Things got too much and everything began to change; little things that became bigger things that turned into everything. Too much distance and too many late night arguments.

“One was California and one was London. One was early mornings on the beach and one was rainy late nights through the city. There was too much all at once yet nothing at all.

“Somehow their homes separated and they broke their hearts. They covered all their furniture in dust covers and never sold the house. The one thing that never changed was their names on the contract. They left separately and didn’t come back.”

“What happened then?” Harry asks and there’s tears in his eyes and he looks up to find Louis’ are the same.

“They still have a long way to go but they’re doing it together,” Louis pauses and smiles, before; “They came home.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey my tumblr is [here](http://www.amemorymaze.tumblr.com) and the fic post is [here](http://amemorymaze.tumblr.com/post/132098282048/could-we-be-enough-we-could-be-enough-by), comments and kudos are wonderful eeeekkk.


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